


TFW YOU'VE BEEN ABDUCTED BUT EVERYONE THINKS YOU'RE JUST HAVING A ROUGH TIME

by tangelotime



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon is Flexible Here, Child Abuse, Cissexism, Cruel and Unusual Ways to Ensure Your Mage Population Stays In Line, Eye Trauma, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime
Summary: The Circle seemed cold to you with all the bare stone. Their mages kept it warmed through magic, but everything else around you was dead. Dead stone, dead trees- you’re sure the building has seen its fair share of dead mages too. You’ve never been anywhere that felt as dead as the Circle.---A young Dalish mage finds themself trapped in the Circle of Magic. Stripped of their magic, freedom, family, and identity, they struggle to find some way to get back what they lost.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that contains only OC's. Nothing but the worldbuilding is taken from Bioware canon. That being said, I'm also playing fast and loose with the rules of magic here. If there's inconsistencies with canon, I've probably noticed and don't really care. It works better for the story and Bioware builds better games than consistently thematic story worlds. 
> 
> The MC uses they/them pronouns and is their own character rather than being a reader insert.

\---

 

You had always treasured your daily lessons with Keeper Sariandi. When you were younger she would warm the aravel with a spell, pull you to her lap, and show you the wonders and the dangers of the Beyond. You had curled up on Keeper Sariandi’s lap when she had first told you about the dangers of humans, not just to elves but to mages. Instead of honoring the connection with the Beyond that you all shared, the humans regarded it as something to be feared and locked up their mages instead of valuing them for that connection. Instead trained warriors locked human mages into stone towers and struck them down if they stepped out of line.

Back then then you had just shuddered, clung to her, and felt glad that you weren’t human and didn’t have to deal with the templars.

You’re hyper aware of them now. There’s a pair of them standing behind you, and you stare stiffly ahead. You can feel their gazes like the way you can feel heat from a forest fire, just aching to devour you alive. They may just be standing quietly now, but you were sure they could cross the room faster than you could, even in all their armor.

If you were still dressed for the forest maybe, but they had taken your Dalish leathers too, and dressed you in cumbersome Circle robes. They dangled past your feet in the chair and on your way up the stairs you had to pull them up to keep from tripping on the hem. These weren’t clothes you were used to. They were scratchy on your arms where the wool touched your bare skin. At least it was still warm.

The Circle seemed cold to you with all the bare stone. Their mages kept it warmed through magic, but everything else around you was dead. Dead stone, dead trees- you’re sure the building has seen its fair share of dead mages too. You’ve never been anywhere that felt as dead as the Circle. The chantry you were locked up in at least had people coming in and out, the lay sister and the chanters seeing to their flock. There was a window to look outside and see grass growing rebellious in the cobblestone. You could still see the sk-

Something crashes in front of you, sending papers flying. You throw yourself backwards, barely moving the sturdy wooden chair and stare at the head of the staff that’s knocked a dent into the pockmarked surface of the desk in front of you.

“-ild! Are you listening!”

You swallow, staring at the exasperated woman in front of you, your ribcage still feeling the pitter patter of your heart. She was a human woman, with a round, kindly looking face you don’t trust at all, and wrinkles that set deeper into her forehead with her frown. The First Enchanter, she said she was. What was her name again?

She sighs and shakes her head, then sits back in her desk, pulling her staff back against her lap.

“Child, I cannot help you if you do not listen to me,” she says. “As I was saying, Aubade and Stuttgart have reported that you have displayed a cunning intellect and a proficiency in magic that seems beyond your years. I have great hopes that you will do well here.”

You look down at the desk again. No matter how cunning and able they thought you were, they had still been able to bring you here.

“Unfortunately, the Knight-Commander does not trust you will not harm anyone with your prowess,” the First Enchanter continues. “So either those cuffs will have to stay on, or you will have a templar escort at all times.”

The cuffs.

You lift an arm to look at one- the wide silver bangle pressed skin tight around your wrist. Its surface is inscribed and enchanted with runes you don’t recognize. On the inside, however, a small needle presses into your skin, between the bones of your wrist. Somehow, they kept you from being able to reach into the Beyond.

It’s been so long that the pain just fades into the background now, like everything else you’ve managed to lose in the past few days.

The First Enchanter pauses a moment, looking over you for a reaction, then says, “Well, you may choose the option you prefer.”

You barely have to think about it. You place your wrists on her desk, staring at the cuffs. The First Enchanter nods, then brings out a tiny key to fit into a small hole at the hairline seam of the shackles.

The first one pops open with a click, and you pull it carefully off, the needle wedged into your flesh comes sliding out with the last flash of pain, without a drop of blood. You roll your wrist around. For the first time in a week it doesn’t hurt, and you can’t help the tear that beads into the corner of your eye.

You thrust your other wrist at the First Enchanter and she unlocks that one too, with an indulgent smile. The Beyond touches you with a gentle finger, soft, a dream, and you can finally, finally, grasp it back. Even with all its dangers, it feels like home. Another tear trickles down your face and you hastily wipe it away on your sleeve, even as you brim with the workings you can do again.

“Well,” the First Enchanter says smiling at you. “Once you’ve gathered yourself. You are dismissed for your morning lessons. There you can meet with your peers. Alderman, would you please show them the way to Enchanter Pasca’s class?”

One of the templars walks up from behind you and smiles, friendly, down at you. She’s much taller than you- you come up to her collarbone, so at least you don’t have to look her in the face.

“Come on,” she says, extending out a hand for you to take. “I’ll show you the way to class.”

Immediately, the euphoria of your reunion with the Beyond freezes solid.

You stare at her gauntleted hand. The templars all wore the same armor, you notice. The sheen of metal is the same. The insides of her palm are lined with the same number of leather strips as every templar hand that’s ever reached out for you, grabbed you, hit you. You can hear your breath in your ears. You paw at the tuft of your hair that hangs over your bad eye, so that it’s more firmly covered.

The path your mind runs through next is well worn, and you already know what you’ll find at the end of it. You don’t want to go with her but what can you do? You can’t run out the locked doors of the tower and you can’t win a fight with grown templars and mages by yourself. You have no friends who might help or any hope of a rescue.

A voice slithers from the Beyond that lets you know that it can be your friend. It could lend you more power than you could ever grasp on your own. It could kill all three adults in the room as soon as- no, you did not want anything it had to give. You knew what it was and what it could do. First and foremost you were the future Keeper of Clan Vennali and no Keeper could be an abela lasa.

Keeper Sariandi always cautioned you about acting impulsively. Anger was a powerful emotion, one that marked the point where action must be taken. But as with all things powerful, it must be wielded with caution. As Keeper, every action you took would dictate some small part of clan life, and you should always act in the best interest of the clan.

The best thing for the clan was that you survive.

So you ignore the whispering from the Beyond, and even if it kills you a little, you quietly stand up to obey.

 

\---

Class is very boring.

The Enchanter that teaches it doesn’t have Keeper Sariandi’s way of explaining each concept with a story and a reason, but drones on as though he’s reading the accounts of sales instead of the basics of primal magic that you learned years ago.

You only half pay attention as you run a finger against the round scar on the inside of your wrist. The shackles never drew blood- your wounds healed the moment you pulled them off. You didn’t notice before, as glad as you were to be rid of them, but now you note that it’s probably part of the chantry’s paranoia about blood magic.

Now that you had your magic back though, you could think about escaping, even if there were templars everywhere. They couldn’t really watch you at all hours, could they? Even templars had to use the privy.

A clack on the desk in front of the classroom draws your attention. The hahren- the circle’s enchanter- nudges a candle straight in its candlestick.

“-forms of energy that creates what we know to be the physical forms of the world around us,” the enchanter says. “Channeling a spell in this school shapes the world as we know it so it is one of the easiest to grasp conceptually. Watch.”

He holds a hand out to the candle and with a moment of focus, a whisper of flame lights the wick. “Fire is a release of energy that shows in the flame. Think of what it is and how you know when you reach for the fade for just a spark, to light the candle. Control is key.”

His eyes scan the classroom. As soon as they meet yours you look down at your hands and feel heat raise to your cheeks. It’s not that you don’t think you can’t do it, it’s just that somehow you can’t stand his scrutiny. You’ve been lighting fires for years now, even younger than your classmates who are all at least six years your junior.

You always did look young for your age with your round face and short stature, and you had not corrected the shemlen when they had estimated you young. Children were moldable, you know. It was the Keeper and hahren who were to instruct the children of your clan to ensure they’d hold onto your way of life and you had worked with them often.

The templars had discussed, briefly, whether you were young enough to settle at the Circle, when they had first caught you, and when they decided you were, well. You hadn’t wanted to give them another reason to kill you, back when you had a better chance of escape.

It wouldn’t have mattered what they thought of you if you had escaped, so you hadn’t corrected them either, when they simply assumed you were a boy and referred to you as ‘he’ instead of ‘they.’ You knew that many of the human nations only used two genders, instead of three, but you thought that your tunic style would have at least made it obvious you weren’t a  _boy_.

“We work in partners today,” the enchanter says, thankfully breaking your train of thought and setting a case of candles onto his desk before walking between the rows of tables and passing them out. “Turn to your seatmates and take turns lighting the candle.”

The wax of the candle hits the table with a thump. It’s half burnt through, the molten lumps of old melted wax crusted onto its side. Your seatmate grabs it up, running his fingers of the bumps and curves of the melted wax.

He’s an elf too, but you wonder if he even knows who the Dalish are.

He glances at you and leans in towards you but you lean away, ducking your head again.

“You’re weird,” he says. “Don’t you talk? I saw you get taken in last night and you were crying loud then.”

You did make a pretty big racket when you were being taken in, desperate to get out from under the layers and layers of security the chantry was burying you under. You had drawn on some onlookers that you didn’t care about then, but you kind of do now.

You don’t look at him or respond and he frowns.

“Well then I go first,” he says, turning his attention to the candle. You watch as he focuses on the wick.

He doesn’t try for very long before he gets bored again and turns his attention to you.

“Say,” he says. “You’re Dalish, aren’t you? You were wearing strange sorts of clothes when you came in. Is it true what they say? That you people steal the babies of respectable folk to put in your stew pots?”

Your temper flares. You can hear the elgar whisper at you from the Beyond again, promising you the power to put this boy straight. Anger called to them, but you know the boy needs stern words and not whatever a magical monster can give. The thought eases the urge to hit something, at least.

“Naw that can’t be true, Lewis,” another young mage says, from behind you. “That stuff’s full of fancies.”

“Is too,” he replies, then leans towards you, cupping a hand around his ear as if to listen to you say something. ”The Dalish elf is my seatmate and he says I’m right.”

You wish you had words now, but there’s so many things running through your head and cramming up behind your throat none of them make it to your tongue. You’re silent, instantly and immediately furious.

The Beyond is pushing on you, and the elgar clamoring for a piece of your rage. You don’t need to burn down the whole room, just make a point. You grab a fist full of the Beyond and shove a small blaze to every wick in the room, including the one clutched in Lewis’ hand.

All around you hear the sound of exclamations and dropped candles. Someone starts crying. “Woah!” Lewis immediately shakes off his candle, blowing it out.

“Wha-” the enchanter looks around the classroom wildly. “Who did that?”

There’s a chorus of small denials, but Lewis points at you and shrieks.

“It was him!”

You want to look behind you, for the “him” but it’s all too obvious with the finger pointing at your chest. All eyes turn on you. There’s a clatter of wood on stone as you knock your chair over in your scramble to stand, your back meeting the wall as you feel for an escape.

They had put you in a seat near the front, away from the door and next to the wall. Rows of desks and children stand between you and the door. The hahren frowns and opens his mouth to scold, his arm outstretched, but you pay less attention to him than the pair of templars that turn into the room, frowns on their faces, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

You scramble over your table, scattering books and yelling children as you dash behind the enchanter’s desk and cast a quick grease spell underneath the templar’s feet. They slip and fall in a clatter of curses and armor, and you look wildly around for an escape.

The enchanter points at you and waves his arms in a pattern you don’t recognize and you leap out from behind his desk just as a glowing glyph appears where you had just been crouching. You don’t recognize it but you better not get caught in it.

The templars haven’t struggled to your feet quite yet- you have to make a break for the door while you still can. You eye the nearest table, hike up your robes and make a leap of faith, overshooting just a little, before you scramble ungainly on to the next desk amidst the shrieking children.

When you jump again, another glyph appears shining on the next desk- you were focusing too much on being accurate so you moved too predictably- and sends you flying backwards till you roll precariously close to the first glyph. You leap to your feet but the enchanter raises his hands again and steps closer to you and when they come down it feels as though he blows your mind straight from your head. Your balance tilts and you stumble and when a hand on your shoulder pushes you backwards, you step back onto the first glyph. The light it gives vanishes and you freeze.

Your mind clears slowly, as you watch the classroom right itself again.

“What is wrong with you?!” the enchanter shouts, incensed. “This is a place of learning! Not some place to clamber around like a monkey whenever you please! You turned your abilities on those who are responsible for you! Ungrateful!”

The words land like blows, but you ignore them, taking stock of your situation. You’re half bent backwards, still tense and you can’t move, not even to fall. The templars, who have finally made their way out of your grease spell walk over to you. That first glyph must have been some sort of paralysis spell, your mind reasons, giddy with fear when the templars stare down at you like you’re some sort of ruined project.

Something wants to rip itself out of your chest and make them all pay. Something that can rip off this measly binding spell and you out of the tower. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. The only thing you had left was your mind- no body, no freedom, no voice, was it really so much to give that away? Surrender your meaningless amount of control for the knowledge that all these people would pay?

You’re the First, you remind yourself, struggling. No one could take that away. The First of Clan Vennali, and one day you’d be Keeper and no Keeper could ever give in to the whispers of the elgar.

“You stupid little kid,” the blonde templar says with a sigh, the one with her hair tucked into a tight ponytail, the one who escorted you down here first. “Why did you have to do that? I have my orders.”

Her orders from who? What? You didn’t hear the First Enchanter tell her anything- but no, no, the templars answered to templars. Your heart stops when she pulls out the shackles, the needle polished gleaming bright.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

She takes your arm. Not a muscle twitches as you try to will your body to move. You can’t even whimper with the pain as she presses their needles back into your wrists. A tear beads up in the corner of your eye as your sense of the Beyond just vanishes, leaving a yawning void behind. It’s only the smallest relief that you can’t hear the whispers of the elgar anymore.

A sigh of disgust escapes the enchanter.

“Well,” he says. “I cannot have him in my classroom. I can’t deal with an entire classroom of children while wondering what this one-” he gestures to your frozen body, “-might do that requires your interventions.” He glances back down at you and sighs, the tight lines in his face relaxing. “Besides, he just displayed a level of spell mastery that goes beyond what I teach. Tell First Enchanter Mavis that she will need to find another method of teaching him.”

The binding spell collapses then, and so do you. The templar catches you before you hit the ground, and with a hand on each shoulder, she steadies you. For what? It’d be easier to smack you around if you were on the ground.

“Woah, kid,” she says. “It’ll be okay. First week’s always the hardest bit.”

You flinch hard, when she touches you on the shoulder, gentle. Your knees buckle until you hit the floor again, trembling, pulling your arms up around your head the best protection you can give yourself. 

“Okay, okay,” the templar says instead, and scoops an arm under your legs and hoists you up against her breastplate. “We’ll take him and tell Mavis what happened.”

Her grip tightens around your arms and shoulders as she adjusts your weight and you burn with the shame and the fear and the rage that leaves you shaking. You can't bear to face the world like this, not when everything that should stand and fill you up whole feels like it's melting through your fingertips. So instead, you let the templar carry you and you don't even hope. 

 

\---

You arrive back at the First Enchanter’s office unharmed, before you realize the templar did what she said she’d do. You don’t have any new broken fingers nor are you missing any more eyes. You’re actually where she said she’d take you, instead of locked in a dungeon somewhere but the templar still has to deposit you in the chair you had sat in before.

The First Enchanter raises an eyebrow to see you there.

“I must admit,” she says. “I hadn’t expected to see you back in my office so soon. What happened?”

The templar explains and you wish you could sink into the floor and disappear, for more than just escape. You’re still trembling, waiting for some horrible consequence, even as you try to understand what you did.

You had thrown off that flare because- why? Because your seatmate had been rude to you? What sort of First threw off sparks the whenever they were ribbed by a peer? Keeper Sariandi had shamed you out of that sort of display a long time ago. And now that she wasn’t here, what was the first thing you did?

And the scramble to escape, what had that done? You had decided to go along with things till you found a better opportunity so why did you decide to scramble across that desk and cause such a scene? What could it have even hoped to accomplish, aside from taking your magic away again? From the way the templar tells it, you know it doesn’t make sense to anyone else either.

“Would you like to explain yourself?” the First Enchanter asks.

Too many questions crowd your mind. Why you did you do any of it? If they knew, how would they react? Would it change anything? Why should you even try? It’s a little surreal, honestly, how quickly everyone forgot that you were kidnapped from your only family as an act of war. You stare down, stony and silent.

The First Enchanter sighs.

“Very well,” she says and leans forward. Her voice is as hard as oak. “Let me make this clear. This sort of outburst will not be tolerated, not here, no matter what you learned in that wilderness you were raised in. You will not raise a hand against those who are here to help you.” She gestures towards the templar. Suddenly a laugh wants to bubble up in your still trembling frame but you swallow it, and keep your gaze down. “I think we can exempt you from further punishment for this. The antimagic cuffs will be enough. But this will be the only time this occurs, do you understand?”

You get it. You feel like you’ve aged a hundred years, your neck a rusty joint when you nod, slow, tiny.

The First Enchanter sighs and leans back again. When she speaks, her tone softens.

“It is clear that you cannot remain in that classroom as it is. Senior Enchanter Ramon will assist you in evaluating exactly how much magic you learned among the Dalish. You will be tutored separately in practical magic, but you must still attend theoretical lessons in a general setting, at whatever Ramon evaluates you to be.”

She gestures to your wrists.

“And I am afraid those must stay on,” she says. “I dislike their use, but they are the only reliable way we have to make sure you don’t hurt anyone. Magic can certainly be wonderful, but it is also very powerful. And like anything very powerful it can be dangerous, and you have not show you can handle the responsibility.”

You balk at her words. You’re plenty responsible, for your home and your people who relied and counted on you. Just because you refuse to be responsible for the Circle’s bullshit doesn’t mean you’re not. But her words sting worse than you thought they would. It sounds like something Keeper Sariandi might have said to you once, but you’re pretty sure if she was here, she’d agree with you now, that escaping had to be first priority. Right?

“When you are better settled,” the First Enchanter says solemnly. “Then we can discuss taking them off again.”

You don’t say a word. The First Enchanter sighs.

“Where’s Ramon?” the templar asks. “I’ll take him there.”

 _Him_ _again_ , you think tiredly. It's a like a sharp blow every time. The First Enchanter shakes her head.

“He should use my office for this. The senior enchanter’s working areas can be a little noisy,” she says. “I have a meeting with Wymarck anyway. I will stop by and deliver the message myself.”

The templar nods as the First Enchanter stands and leaves the office. She clanks, as she sets her hip against the First Enchanter’s desk and peers down at you. You can feel her gaze through your bangs, which you keep carefully between your eyes and hers. She squats then, so she can look up at you and you turn your gaze.

“So,” she says softly, undeterred. “I know we didn’t get much of a chance for introductions. My name’s Elizabeth Alderman, but you can call me Liza.”

You keep your eyes fixed to the ground, determined to dislike her. You’d rather call her an asshole really. Who did she think she was? Handling you like a spooked halla, as though you weren’t smart enough to know the difference between a hand held out in friendship and a hand that’d lead you to slaughter. She was nicer than the other templars, but she still was a templar. She’d show her true colors some day.

Still she continues.

“I’m sorry things have been so rough for you so far,” the templar says. “I know things have got to be scary and what you’ve been through so far hasn’t been fair to you. Them that brought you here were too cruel. But I'm here to help you, okay?”

Now that pricks you and you turn your head to stare down at her, and the flaming sword on her chest. So she knows this isn’t fair, but she refuses to change anything that’s been unfair. You want your eye back, your magic back, your family back, but none of her platitudes could do any of that.

She smiles back at you, her pale blue eyes shining with something like hope.

You hate her.

And so you spit at her feet and wait. Nothing. You look up in time to see her face fall in disgust before she sighs with disappointment. You feel a flash of guilt but you thrust it away and remember why you’re here, instead of with your clan.

“You probably hate this,” she says, and she’s right again. “But it’s not so bad here, if you behave. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

She says it gentle, but it sounds like a threat. She stands, at the very least, and doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. You’re happy to sit in silence.

The templar shifts when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. This senior enchanter, you think. You’re not looking forward to seeing how this mage is supposed to gauge your skill and knowledge, not when you refuse to talk. You twist in your seat to see him come in and you blink in shock.

He’s shorter in stature, with a lean figure and a crop of greying hair curling around his ears. His large, pointed ears. He’s an elf, and old, but his face is as bare as yours.

Some part of you knew that there had to be adult elves here who hadn’t had a chance to earn their vallaslin. That boy who claimed that claimed that your people stole babies wouldn’t have the chance. Why would any other elf in the Circle?

You were too young for vallaslin, still two years from your 18th birthday. You had been trying to convince Keeper Sariandi that you were ready for them sooner but she had refused and now…. if you couldn’t escape- if you stayed here for that long….

Your imagination carries you far ahead, celebrating your 18th birthday in the tower, alone, still trying to escape. The horror of two years in this place full of dead wood and dead stone, with no escape or change, hits you like a punch to the gut. And after that? Would you stay barefaced as a child for the rest of your life, locked in this tower?

No, you decide. You’d throw yourself off the top of the tower if you turned eighteen here.

The enchanter smiles at you, his dark eyes crinkling in good humor. More humor than you thought any mage trapped in the Circle ought to have.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m Ramon. I’m here to test your knowledge on magic.”

You look back down as he comes to sit next to you in a nearby chair. The templar clanks as she steps back towards the wall to lean back and watch.

“I hear you have an appreciable handle on primal and creation spells,” he says. “Correct?”

You stare down, like you don’t understand what he’s saying.

“Can you nod if you understand what I’m saying?” the enchanter asks, still patient.

You don’t nod.

“He does understand what’s being said,” the templar pipes up from the side.

“Thank you, Alderman,” the enchanter replies, his eyes still on you. You really wish the templar would leave you alone and stop deciding who you are and what you understand.

The senior enchanter’s way of trying to evaluate you turns out to be a series of yes no questions, and questions where he gave you several answers to choose from so you’d only have to nod, shake your head, or hold up the appropriate number of fingers.

All his systems were pointless if you ignore all his questions. You understand primal spells. You haven’t mastered every one Keeper Sariandi knew, but it wasn’t that difficult to understand. Creation wasn’t so difficult either, but you pause as he mentions the glyphs that had been used against you earlier. Glyphs of paralysis and repulsion.

They weren’t a part of the magic you learned from Keeper Sariandi- the symbols were totally alien to the magic passed down from Keeper to First for centuries, as far as you knew.

“Do you know how glyph spells work?” the enchanter asks again. On the journey to the Circle, you had examined the anti-magic cuffs to the best of your ability, but the runes imprinted into the silver medal weren’t anything Keeper Sariandi had taught you. If the Circle wanted to teach you it’s secrets, why shouldn’t you learn? This time you shake your head slowly.

Encouraged, the enchanter returns to his questions about primal spells and you answer about as truthfully as you can. His systems come in handy then. You’re answering but opening your mouth and actually speaking to the Circle mages feels like it’d open your last protective barrier. You’d rather the whole Circle jump through hoops to talk to you than to just give them what they want.

The enchanter eventually works out that you’re pretty proficient with primal magic- it’s your best school even if you have some issues with lightning spells, and that you know a good amount about creation magic and its workings, as well as some of the theory behind entropy and spirit, but fewer of their practical workings. The theory of magic in the Circle wasn’t really different, though you noticed that they seemed to think of magic in discrete spells, instead of one tool used in different ways. And there were some glaring holes. None of the enchanter’s questions even touched on the plant magic parts of the primal school.

“You should be studying with the teenagers,” the senior enchanter says with a sigh, after he’s finally done with all the questions. “You’re remarkably proficient for your age.” You hold in a snort. That would be because you _were_ a teenager. “We’ll settle you with Enchanter Holbrooke then, for theoreticals. I will handle your practical tutoring.”   
The templar stretches, clanking all the while.

“It’s midday meal,” she says. “They’ll be eating now before moving to afternoon lessons.”

“Then let’s get this young one some food,” the enchanter says. “I’ll speak to Holbrooke about the necessary lessons.”

\---

Noon finds you holding a pasty. You’ve eaten this stuff cold before, on the trip to the Circle, when the templars fed you from their packs, and the Circle mage among them insisted that you eat. They’re better warm, you think, as you nibble on the corner of the pastry.

You miss your favorite dish from home, spiced peppers stuffed with nuts and rice. Circle fare was bland in comparison.

You’re seated near the back of the room, the rest of the students talking and chattering as they eat their own pasties. The two enchanters and the templar are discussing you, you’re pretty sure, since they keep looking at you. The new enchanter was a stocky woman, human and broad, with a short crop of red hair and a blaze of freckles across her face. She looked like the sort of person who would be able to wade into a classroom tumble and tear disputes apart. You can’t hear what they’re saying from the other side of the room, but probably about the problems you had in class that morning.

The students too, keep looking at you, and whispering. There are a couple of elves among them, none of the old enough to earn their own vallaslin either, but you very much doubt there was someone else here who was also Dalish.

You brace yourself when one of the other students comes over, a tall lanky elf girl, all angles and bones.

“Hey,” she says breezily. “You’re the Dalish elf, right? I’m Lyn.”

She sticks out a hand for you to shake but you just take another small bite of your pasty and ignore her. She just sits on the table and leans over towards you.

“What’s your name?” she asks, persistent. “I heard you come in last night, and man that sounded like it sucked. But you’re here with us big kids now so I guess old lady Mavy thinks you got gumption or something like that.”

She pauses for a breath, sitting back up and you take the chance to take another bite of the pasty. She barely even seems to notice you haven’t said anything.

“I’ve never met a Dalish elf before,” she says, tireless as a babbling brook. “I got here when I was like your age-” ten, probably, and not sixteen, you think. “-and like most folk I knew were alienage folk, but everyone here is from ‘bout every place you can think of you know? Not that people like talking ‘bout that sort of thing. You know, ‘cause some of them are ashamed to admit they were raised in pig pens like Trumont there.” She grins and jams a thumb behind her at the rest of friends, who are making no attempt to pretend they’re not listening.

“Oh shuddup, Lyn!” one of the other students yells and tosses a bag at her head, which she slaps out of the way.

“Oi,” she says, indignant. “Your throw sucked worse than your manners. I’m insulted it was in my direction. And I’m talking here!” She leans back towards you, her smile mischievous. “See what I mean, raised by pigs?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, but her group of friends titter. She continues on, without missing a beat.

“But yeah as I was saying, we got people from all over, but like all the elf folk are from the alienages or the chantry and I’ve never even heard of a Dalish elf in the tower so you’re basically the only one.”

You did guess that one, but with all the talk, you’re sure she’s just getting to her point.

“It’s weird right? The only time I ever even heard of the Dalish in the alienage was when this prissy girl Shaeli ran off to try to find a clan instead of doing her chores. When she came back the next day her parents tanned her hide hard for that one. I wouldn’t have bet a copper that she’d live you know, that was a shit stupid thing to do. But anyway back to the point.

So I’ve been here like years and years right? And no Dalish elves ever came in, and none of the adults have heard of it either, not even those who been to other Circles. I figured maybe the Dalish just don’t have mages or something, but no, here you are. So why are you here?”

She peers intently at you, wide brown eyes curious. You sit there, blinking at the deluge of words.

“You’re talking his ear off, Lyn!” calls another one of her friends. “He doesn’t wanna talk to you!”

“Shuddup, Sari!” she yells back. “Of course he does!”

But when she peers back at you, you duck your head. You’re not sure what she wants from you or how to respond. She wants to be friends maybe, but you don’t want to be friends with Circle mages. You want to leave as soon as possible.

So, you take a large bite of the pasty, so full you couldn’t possibly be expected to speak.

Her face falls when she sees you take the bite. “Aw damn,” the elf girl says disappointed. “Now I owe Sari two coppers.”

You stare up at her then. Did she bet money on whether or not you’d talk to her? She just shrugs when she notices the look in your eye.

“Sorry Dalish,” she says. “Don’t mean any offense by it, but new and interesting isn’t as common as you think it’d be in a tower literally brim full of magic. And you’re definitely new and interesting.”

She grins toothily at you before hopping off the table and heading back to her friends.

“And hey, if you need anything just give me a holler.”

Like you’ll take an offer of help from someone who just lost money betting on you. And you thought maybe she wanted to be your friend. You reach for a flask of water before you choke on that mouthful of pasty.

 

\---

The babbling brook wasn’t the only person who gossiped about you that day.

When you sit down in the dining hall, escorted still by the templar, you can hear the tale of your noisy entrance, and the story of your morning class get told and retold, each time more outlandish than the last.

Gossip. The talkative girl from your class seemed to have the right of it. You were the most interesting thing in the tower right then, so you were would be front and center in the gossip vines.

You hated it when the gossip was about you. You had despised it when the only thing the clan elders would talk about was if you and Lystic were hiding a romance, but you had to admit it was a good way of knowing what was going on.

The children speculate more about you, who you are and why a Dalish mage is in the Circle, at least among the children. They wonder if you’re maybe secret Dalish royalty, thrown out for the touch of magic, or maybe the last survivor of a big battle.

The adults wonder more about what happened on the trip to the tower, and what happened to your escort. You lean in and listen to them. You had expected to see at least the human mage in the tower, but no, not a whisper.

“Demmens had the best tenor in the chantry choir,” grumbled a mage. “And they send him away. He had a solo in the upcoming show but I suppose we’ll have to postpone that.”

“Is there something going on in Kirkwall that they need more manpower up there?” someone else interjects. “I can’t see why they decided to send him away.”

They had sent him away? For running, probably.

“It’s not Kirkwall,” a third voice says. “It has to be that trip. Stuttgart has to take up babysitting posts again and you know how much he hates that. Something happened when they went on that Dalish mission. I can’t say I’ll miss Aubade though.”

“Yeah.”

“She was a real piece of work,” the second voice says. “I do hear Kirkwall is more her speed.”

They laugh, and you stare at your plate horrified. Aubade was the templar who damaged your eye badly enough that even the spirit healers couldn't fix it, and they had punished her not by removing her from her post but by inflicting her on different mages. A slap on the wrist.

And they had sent Demmens with her. You didn’t know how to feel about him. But he didn’t deserve to be stuck with her on the long trip up to the Free Marches.

You don't know why you expected better from the Circle. Your stomach churns and you shove your half finished plate away.

Your templar nanny takes note of it, and raises an eyebrow.

“Full?” she asks, and you nod.

“You have free time for two hours before you get ready for bed,” she says as she stands and shows you where you can wash your dishes.

You ignore her, and go looking for something to distract you from the growing pit in your stomach. The templar still follows you, which makes your free time seem very much less free, but at least she’s not still trying to talk to you and you can at least feel like she won’t kill you for stepping out of line since she pretends to be nice.

You wander until you find a room that takes your breath away. It was enormous, with bookshelves stretching towards ceilings high enough for aravels to pass under and every shelf nearly full.

The Dalish had always used an oral tradition. Knowledge in the clan was passed down by Keeper and Hahren through word of mouth, so that nothing could be lost so long as there were Keepers and Hahrens. And besides, no clan had the space for books, not like this. The books here would have filled every aravel in your caravan.

You had two worn books you kept in your tent. One was the letters book that the Keeper used to teach you to read, the other was a small collection of Orlesian legends that you had read over and over. A storyteller was a better way of hearing a story, when all is said and done, but you could appreciate that a book would let you learn  _alone_.  Especially now. You were quite done with everyone around you and the last thing you wanted was for yet another person to lecture you. You run your hand across the spines of the books to browse.

You find a beginner’s book on glyph spells, an encyclopedia of enchantment, and to your surprised delight, another copy of the book of Orlesian legends you had left behind. You glance at the templar who nods approvingly at your book choices before you pull up a chair to peruse your books.

You start with the legends, familiar words on unfamiliar pages. It’s in better shape than your copy, the words less faded and the pages less stained.

You peruse the contents, running your fingers of the words that state in familiar print,  _Aveline the Chevalier_ , the story of the girl whose death changed Orlais. It does seem silly that Aveline was supposedly human, raised by the Dalish as she was. You know your clan would have never taken a human child with them to raise. It was enough they had their own mouths to feed and the human chantry would care for orphaned children.

Maybe Kaleva was so shamed about being beaten by a woman elf that they only kept part of the story.

You glance up at your templar nanny to find that she had sat down, crossed her arms over her chest, and nodded off. You watch her for a moment, but she doesn’t move.

Suddenly, you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. For the first time in ages, you’re not being watched and the past week weighs heavily on your shoulders. You’re so  _tired_. You rest your head on the encyclopedia and close your eyes. The bracers aren't just a drain on your magic. Every twitch of your fingers made your wrists ache, till you're so tired of the pain you barely feel it any more, and that's even aside from the Circle itself.

It was _draining,_ and in the worst way possible. No one understood anything about you.

No one here knew what it meant to be Dalish. Everyone treated you like you were ten years old, because they actually thought you were ten. Being referred to as a boy, was laughable at first but it got exhausting very quickly. Keepers explained and encouraged understanding among your people. Maybe Keeper Sariandi would tell you that the best way to move forward is with patience and understanding.

But Keeper Sariandi wasn’t here, and these weren’t your people. This was a prison, as much as everyone liked to pretend it wasn’t. It was better to stay silent.

You slide the Orlesian book from under your head so you can flip to the first page of  _The Sword of Drakon_. Your copy had a large stain on that page, from when Lystic had dripped rabbit stew on your book, leaning over to have a look. You had been furious with him then. You hope he’s okay now.’

The templars said that Clan Vennali was dead, but you couldn’t believe that. Lystic, and Hahren Kilria, or Telrali, any of the kids, or the hunters- Elrin, who had tried so hard to save you- you had to believe some of them were alive, even if they were scattered or hurt.

Keeper Sariandi, you knew. You had seen them cut her throat. Her blood had cooled on your hands. It was little comfort that you couldn’t dream of it, not with the shackles on.

It hurts to remember but you couldn’t not think about her either. You had spent more time with her than anyone else, as the First and the Keeper should. Your times together were your stories now, and one day you’d tell your clan those stories to be passed down forever.

You’d never forget.

You’re exhausted, but you still bring your head up to you glance back up at the templar. She’s still sound asleep. You can’t let your unsupervised moment pass without using the chance to work unnoticed. You put aside the book of legends to flip open the encyclopedia of enchantment and start looking for the symbols clasped around your wrists.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape, as it turns out, is more of a marathon than a sprint. Also a marathon; survival. 
> 
> \----
> 
> A young Dalish mage finds themself trapped in the Circle of Magic. Stripped of their magic, freedom, family, and identity, they struggle to find some way to get back what they lost.

Two weeks later, the cuffs still clack against the wash basin when you rinse your hands. 

Escape, as it turned out, was more of a marathon than a sprint. It took you nearly a week and a half to scrape together enough time to comb through the encyclopedia of enchantments, trying to find out how the damn cuffs work, and all it had given you was that they had force shield and healing runes. 

_ That  _ you could have figured without pawing through a book. 

The bracers clasp tight around your wrist with no wriggle room. They’re wide and thin so they’re not heavy, and yet you could never scratch them when you lost your temper and tried to bash them against the stone of tower. They’re tight enough that you can’t slide them up and down your arm, and no matter how hard you tug and pull, and no matter how much it hurts, you never bleed. 

You just don’t understand how it’s working. There’s no anti-magic runes on it, though they were in the book so you know they  _ exist _ . But you suppose that’d mean you could have smacked them against a rock until you scratched a rune out of existence. 

You move to turn, but your reflection catches your eye. It’s impossible to miss. A burnished piece of metal hangs on the wall in front of you for the younger apprentices to use as a mirror. You can see that you’re still short, with a round face and a square chin, without a hint of cheekbone that gave you the youthful look that had deluded so many people into thinking you younger. Your ears are still pointed and large.

There’s a darkened bag of skin underneath your visible eye, and while it’s difficult to tell in the tint in the metal mirror, you’re fairly certain your complexion has gone from warm browns to ashy greys. 

You look to the mirror to see yourself and instead what you find is a Circle mage, wearing Circle robes and barefaced as everyone else in the tower, that’s somehow still you. You’re the First of Clan Vennali, you remind yourself. You’re sixteen, two years away from getting your vallaslin, something no one could take away from you. 

Your short crop of hair growing long enough to swoop over your defunct eye. You brush it aside to stare at the scar drawn through your eyelid and the spider web of white damage that frosts over the dark iris of your eye.

The toll of a bell indicates that it’s dinner time. You’re sick of looking at yourself anyways. 

\---

Dinner is a usual affair. Your Templar Nanny doesn’t trail you through the halls anymore. She’s just makes sure to eat with you so she can prod carefully ask you how your day has gone. 

You’ve never answered, so it’s a pretty awkward affair. 

If you were being fair, life in the Circle wasn’t quite as bad as you thought it would be. It was a lot less hitting and getting thrown around than the journey here had led you to believe. You were getting used to the schedule they pushed you through every day and night. You knew, more or less, what to expect. 

But you’re not being fair. You hate this place. 

“Ser Alderman?”  a voice speaks up on your blind side that makes you jump. You hadn’t heard the approach. Lyn stands there, her hands clasped behind her back, a polite smile on her face and a sly look in her eye that you don’t trust at all. What did she want? 

For some reason Lyn decided to take on some sort of big sister role for you. You don’t think you’ve given her any indication that you like it, or her, but she ignores you and trucks on with it anyway.

“Lyn,” Templar Nanny says, leaning back to eye the elf girl. “Aren’t you polite today?” 

She grins back, wide and very nearly smug. 

“First Enchanter Mavis always does say being polite is the best way to ask for something,” she says.

“So you do want something.” 

“Can I take Dalish to the chantry for free time?” Lyn asks. “I want to show them what it’s like and I don’t think they’ve been there before.” 

Your head swivels up to glare at her. You don’t  _ want  _ to go to the chantry. Who the fuck did she think she was asking your templar nanny first, instead of  _ you _ ? Why did she even want to take you to the chantry? Was she trying to make you accept the sacrifice of Andraste or whatever bullshit the Chantry spewed? 

Lyn turns to look at you and gives you a solid wink.  

“The chantry?” Templar Nanny sounds surprised. “Well, I don’t suppose I can say no to that.”  

“Thank you, Ser Alderman,” Lyn says, still grinning, then grabs you by the hand and tugs you towards the door. 

You’ve passed by the chantry before, but you’ve never dared to take more than a glance. There’s always templars inside and chantry sisters weren’t exactly your favorite people. From what you’ve seen it’s better dressed than most of the tower, with red carpets, wood benches, and banners that weren’t even a little singed by wayward magic. 

As Lyn leads you inside, you can see the nooks and crannies that you couldn’t catch with the glimpses you stole, set up with altars lit with candles that the chantry sisters attended. Unlike the rest of the tower, which was lit mostly by magic, the chantry was only lit by fire light. Torches and candles threw flickering shadows over everything, except, you guess the templar’s shining armor. 

Lyn doesn’t seem to mind the templars that stand along the chantry walls. She doesn’t spare them a second glance as she makes a beeline for a figure in a initiate habit, sitting on a bench. The templars barely give  _ you  _ a second glance either, making note of your presence before turning back to their own conversations. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the fact you’re supposed to coexist with them. 

“Alice!” Lyn exclaims and waves her free hand. 

The initiate turns towards Lyn and smiles, so wide her dark brown eyes nearly crinkle shut. “Lyn!” she exclaims, rising to meet her incoming friend. Her hair is dark and sleek in the firelight and pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.  Her face is suited for kindness, round and freckled on warm brown skin, without a cragg in her brow or nose, but you don’t trust it at all.

Lyn lets your hand go to clasp hers, nearly bouncing as she greets the initiate with a hug. 

“Alice, this is Dalish,” she says, as she pulls away, gesturing to you. “Dalish, Alice.” 

The initiate turns towards you with a suspiciously kind smile. Lyn must have brought you here to meet this person. Of course. Who better to instruct you in all the ways of Andraste than an initiate of the chantry? 

“Hello Dalish,” the initiate says. “Let’s sit.” 

Lyn takes you by the shoulders and steers you around to the wooden bench, as the initiate takes a slate and a piece of chalk off the seat to make room for you to sit. You shrink on the bench as Lyn and the initiate take places on either side of you. It’s not like you can  _ run _ anywhere, but any conversion talk was going to be so uncomfortable. You could sit through it, but you wouldn’t  _ like _ it. 

If you don’t pretend to be receptive, would Lyn start harassing you about it? It’s not a great thought. Now that you think about it, she was probably the most tolerable part of the Circle so far, always trying to get on your good side and help you out. Losing that would make the Circle suck just that much more. 

“Okay so I first got here when I was like seven right?” Lyn starts. It’s one of her stories she was always telling you. “And like I did  _ not _ have a good time, like at all. I just didn’t get all the shit that was going on? Wouldn’t do any of my work, just like you.” 

She pauses to look at your reaction, and you just swivel so you can glare at her balefully with your working eye. 

For the first time since you’ve met her, Lyn falters. She swallows, and gestures towards the initiate on your other side. 

“Turns out, Lyn couldn’t read very much at all,” the initiate continues for her. “I helped figure it out and teach her how to read, since she didn’t very much like any of the enchanters at the time.” 

“Alice is a lot better at the whole teaching thing than me,” Lyn says, and puts the slate on your lap. “So I was just wondering if that was a problem for you, and if it was, then we could help you out.” 

Oh. 

You stare down at the slate and chalk on your lap, not knowing whether you should laugh or scream, or just be incredibly offended. You spent most your free time in the  _ library _ . A fact Lyn clearly missed out on. 

“Well?” Lyn prompts, nudging you gently with an elbow.

You pick up the chalk and start writing. 

“I’m not illiterate, you fucking morons,” the initiate reads out loud. 

Lyn bursts into laughter. You glance back at the templars, but they barely note her amusement. 

“Language!” Lyn exclaims without a trace of heat. “Well that’s good to know!” 

“If for whatever reason you don’t want to talk,” the initiate says with a chuckle. “Then why don’t you write to us? Your name would be a great start.” 

You look up at her face, still kind, still smiling. A furious rush of resentment rushes through you  like wind spells in aravel sails and before you know it, you’ve snapped the slate into your knee until it snaps in half. 

The shock on the initiate’s face is gratifying but Lyn shouts, “Oi, Dalish! What’d you do that for?” and there’s a touch of anger in her voice. 

You bolt off the seat from between them before either of them can make a grab, tense and ready to jump  out of the way of any kind of retribution, but they both just sort of just stare at you and exchange a glance with each other uncertain.  

“You kids okay?” one of the templars calls over, and ice zips down your spine and seizes you till you’re frozen in place, your eye fixed on the firelight gleaming on templar armor. Lyn turns to look too, without a trace of humor on her face for the first time.

“Just an accident!” the initiate calls over her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“If you’re sure,” the templar says. The three of you are all silent until she returns to her conversation and you all breathe again. 

You guess you’re not the only one whose wary around templars after all. The initiate’s not even a mage. 

“Dalish,” Lyn says, voice hushed. “We’re not going to hurt you, okay? Swear on my mom. I don’t like bullies. And I have been helping you, haven’t I?” 

You don’t do anything, your single working eye darting between the two older teens. 

“I’d like to help you,” the initiate says, still quiet and earnest. “Like I helped Lyn. But I can’t if I don’t know what’s wrong. You have to tell me how I can help.” 

You take a shaky breath, the chalk in your hand, and write the one thing you know neither of them will help you with. 

“Let me go home,” the initiate reads softly. She exchanges a helpless look with Lyn, but the silence is basically all you need to know. You place the broken slate on the floor so the templars don’t react to a clatter and step into the corner alcove, tucking yourself into a corner. 

You stare into the altar that sits in the corner lit full of candles of varying heights. There’s a stool at the right height for someone to kneel on. You wonder for a moment what any of it is supposed to mean or what good it was supposed to do. Kneeling in front of a bunch of candles doesn’t seem like something at all useful, not like carving ironbark icons for June to bless a craft space, or dedicating the first spell of the day to Mythal in thanks for the bounty of the Beyond. 

You miss having something to thank the Creators for. Well. Except Fen’harel. 

“Hey,” the word comes softly, and you whirl to find the initiate standing over you. She hesitates, then steps back towards the wall and sits on the floor. You watch her, standing but she doesn’t look at you. 

“Being somewhere new can be hard,” she says, after a long moment. “Especially when everything is different and you don’t have a choice.” 

She glances up at you, her round face solemn. “I was given to the chantry at a young age, after my parents died of the pox. They were merchants from Rivain and they weren’t Andrastian. They took shore leave in Amaranthine and died there, leaving me behind.” 

She looks away as you stare at her, stony faced. She could be lying, obviously. It was some cheap ploy to try and get you to open up. 

“Believe me, I know it’s hard to adjust,” she says softly. “And this place might never be home to you. But there are good things about it, just as there are good things about the chant. Like the Canticle of Benedictions. 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of th just.” 

The initiate looks at you again, blinking up at you, slow and careful. “You just have to figure out what that means to you. Anyway, if you ever need peace and quiet, we can tell the templars you’ve found Andraste, and they’ll let you spend some time here at the altars.” 

You stand there, a moment. Alice’s words fight for space in your head, and you’re really not sure you want to give them any consideration at all. You turn on your heel to leave. 

If your templar nanny comes to find you and you’re not here, you’ll probably get in trouble, but you’d rather bundle up in bed than anything else, even go to the library. Your search for the key to your neutralizing cuffs could wait one night. 

At the door you glance back at Lyn and the initiate. Alice had gotten up from the floor and Lyn was reaching for her, entangling her fingers with hers. They bump shoulders, glance at the templars, then part, their hands still trailing against each other’s palms. 

Oh. You have an inkling now, about why the initiate was worried about templars. Now that you think about it, you haven’t seen a single romance in the tower. 

You turn to leave before they realize you were watching. 

\------

Lyn and Alice stay on your mind, even when you have better things to think about, like escaping the tower. You hadn’t thought about them much at all last night. You barely had time enough to continue your research. Instead you had laid in bed thinking about Lyn and Alice, and what they could possibly want for far too long when you could be focusing on what was really important. 

The enchanter was organizing her notes at her desk before class began; it was a perfect time to zone out and solve your problem. The cuffs had proven to be quite a frustrating puzzle. You have to consider what you know about it, what other possible paths you could take. You sort of wish you could write it down, or speak it aloud without fearing someone would find out what you were doing. 

You catch Lyn glancing at you again from her seat at the front of the room. She holds your gaze for a moment and before she can smile at you, you look away again, sinking into your seat and holding your hands in front of your face for good measure. Dirthamen, what did she want from you exactly? Genuine interest in your well being was too convenient to trust. Maybe the templars bribed her with extra privileges if she got you to start talking. It’s not like they wouldn’t have leverage, not with those lingering touches you saw last night. 

“There will be no practical aspects of today’s lessons!” the enchanter exclaims as she begins the lecture. “Today we are covering blood magic, its hazards and its effects on the world- not teaching you how to perform it!”

There’s a flurry as the students all settle in to listen, but for you, well. It’s a great excuse to think about what you really should think about. Keeper Sariandi had already given you lectures about blood magic, how it was a twisted, selfish magic that cut the user off from the Beyond, and made you swear never to do it. There was nothing new here to learn, and you’re pretty sure anything the chantry said about blood magic was probably full of lies. 

Plus now that the lecture started, Lyn wasn’t looking at you so often. You twist a cuff until it hurt, so you’d focus on what was important, running your fingers over the engraving. 

“-antithesis of all spellcasting as we know it. Unlike regular magic, it is inherently violent. Maleficaum do not simply use their own blood, but the blood of others, willing or not.” 

Your cuffs. Somehow they prevented you from using magic and if you had any hope of escape, you had to figure out how. 

You had learned enough about human enchantment and glyph magic the past couple of weeks to know that they still needed power sources like any other spell- either a magician’s mana or lyrium. It was obviously some sort of rune that severed your connection to the Beyond, but you had gone through just about every antimagic rune book in the library you could find. 

“-the mages you know may turn to such evils. Learning how blood magic affects the user and how to recognize it is integral to your survival outside.” 

Your cuffs. Somehow they prevented you from using magic and if you had any hope of escape, you had to figure out how. You had learned enough about human enchantment and glyph magic the past couple of weeks to know that they still needed power sources like any other spell- either a magician’s mana or lyrium. It was obviously some sort of rune that severed your connection to the Beyond, but you had gone through just about every antimagic rune book in the library you could find. 

Every one you’ve found would have nullified the magic that kept the cuffs intact with all the time you’ve spent banging them against a wall. They’d also need a nullification rune would still need lyrium or another spell caster to power the spell and you didn’t have a mage following you all day, and you’d have gone lyrium mad by now if it was present in the cuffs. There had to be something you were missing, some other source of power.

“-power. Many an exhausted mage have turned to the power that flows in their veins.”

The enchanter’s words prick your ears, and suddenly you sit up to listen, a chunk of ice suddenly weighing on your stomach. 

“Of course, when a mage uses blood magic, it cuts them off from the Fade, and they are forced to use more and more of it. It’s like an addiction.”

Blood magic. You twitch your wrists and feel the needle pressed between your bones respond in kind. Blood. You never bled. Maybe you were looking up the wrong runes. There had to be magic in them to keep you from bleeding- and if it was powered by blood magic- then. 

You swallow hard. 

You don’t want to think it. Maybe you’re wrong. What was it that Keeper Sariandi said about blood magic again?  The practitioners grew twisted, selfish, reliant on the power of life to fuel their own ends. Cut off from the Beyond, their connection weakening the more they used it. 

How long had you been wearing these cuffs? Did it still count if you didn’t choose this? 

Did the chantry cut you off forever from the Beyond? How, then, if the only magic you could do ever again was blood magic, could you ever return home?

“Now get your slates out and list out three different ways you can identify maleficarum, and four different ways blood magic affects the mage.” 

There’s a clattering of wood and stone as your classmates take out their slates and chalk. You do too, but instead of writing like she asks, you sit, frozen. Did the chantry cut you off forever from the Beyond? How, then, if the only magic you could do ever again was blood magic, could you ever return home? 

The enchanter passes by to check on your work and only sighs when she sees your empty slate. 

“Again, Dalish?” she asks, tired. “When will enough be enough?” She pulls your hand up and puts your chalk in it, and force you to hold it again. You stare at the chalk like you’ve never seen it before. 

“Do it properly,” she snaps as you bend over your slate. 

Even if you broke out, even if you escaped the templars, even if you found your clan still alive and well, could you be a Keeper who was a  _ blood mage _ ? You couldn’t very well slit your wrists every time the clan needed a cover spell, or to fill the sails of the aravel. 

Did the chantry manage to cut you off from the Dalish forever? 

You’re going to be an outcast from your own people. You can’t go  _ back _ , but you can’t stay here either, or you’ll just  _ die _ . You’d wilt like any plant shoved into the dark. 

You feel dizzy, like all your blood rushed from your head. Your breathing feels shallow too. For the first time, the Circle seems permanent. The walls feel like they’re closing in on you. 

“Dalish.” 

The enchanter’s back, standing over you as she reaches for the slate. You barely blink as she picks it up, sighs, and places it back in front of you. You flinch, just an inch at the clatter of the slate. 

But the enchanter doesn’t yell at you, simply walks back to her table to sort through slates as lunch is delivered. Maybe you should try, just a little harder in class. Suddenly, the idea that no one here cares what happens to you is much scarier. 

The rest of the students line up to get their food, but you’re can’t move. You’re scared, you think. Lyn throws you a few more glances, and you just look down. Your stomach is too tied up in knots to even think about eating. You can’t keep sitting still like a lump, but there’s too much going on inside of you to think about what’s going on on the outside. 

You want this to stop. You want this nightmare to be over, but Keeper Sariandi wasn’t going to wake you up. You wonder wildly, if your birth parents might still want you. They had given you up to be Clan Vennali’s First from before you can even remember. 

A voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Dalish. Please come here.” It’s the enchanter. She gestures you forward, with the templar at her side. 

Every part of your body, every nerve, every bone every hair shrieks. You have to run. You should go. You can’t run. You don’t want to go. 

“Ooooooo,” one of the students calls. “Dalish is in trouuubleeee.” 

“What is he even  _ doing _ here?” you hear another mutter. 

“Oh lay off,” someone else says, probably Lyn. “He’s just a kid.” 

“Hush,” the enchanter snaps irritably, and strides across the classroom to loom over you and grab you by the arm. Your heart leaps into your throat and when she pulls, you resist. 

“Come  _ on _ ,” she says, impatient, and hauls you out of your seat and out the door where the templar stands. Your eyes come up to flaming sword embossed in their chest, and you glance down to see  that their hand rests on the hilt of the very real one hanging off their belt. There’s nothing to appeal to, not with their helmet set over their eyes. You spare a second, searching the dark slats for any hint of mercy and get nothing. 

You’re going to die, you’re certain. You’re going to die. Your knees give way and the cold stone floor meets you. You wish you died with Keeper Sariandi, in the forest, instead of here, in this prison so far from home. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the enchanter snaps. “It’s not the end of the world, we’re having a  _ conversation _ .” 

You glance up, a little thrown. A conversation? She sits down on the ground in front of you, her face serious. Her eyes are the color of ice, you notice, as they narrow, the skin around them crinkled as she examines you, up and down. You watch her, wary, as you curl up with your knees to your chest. She just sighs. 

“You’re not being punished,” she says. “You don’t have to be so afraid. We’re here to have a conversation. As much of a conversation we can have if you don’t talk. Do you understand?” 

You nod, from behind your knees.

“By all accounts, you’re very bright. There  _ is _ a reason you are in my class, and your blank slates aren’t it. You have a  _ future _ , here at the Circle. I know the circumstance were not kind, but no one is here because they chose it. We can all simply make the best of what we have, even if what we have happens to be magic. The path you are traveling down is not a good one. ” 

A conversation. It’s just a conversation. Suddenly your chest loosens so you can suddenly breathe normally, and you realize, somewhat hysterically, that it would have been kind of stupid to just execute you in the middle of the hall because you didn’t write out a slate. Your next breath threatens to bring up sobs, but you bite your lip and stare back at her, your eye wide and bright. 

“I know all the other kids are older than you,” the enchanter continues. “I know that the work you’re being given is much harder for you, but it’s more important that you  _ try _ than to get things right.” She nods at the templar. “We didn’t want to put more pressure on you, but we have to let you know what happens if you don’t try harder.” 

The templar sits too, clanking as their knee meets the stone and shifts to sit. He removes his helmet and smiles much too widely at you, a smile that doesn’t even reach his eyes. He’s always looked like he should be friendly, with a round face and small rectangle spectacles that sit on the bridge of his nose. His beard is trimmed a little neater since you saw him two weeks ago. 

Stuttgart and Aubade had been quite the pair. Aubade would do whatever she wanted with you, and he would ignore it. Maybe he’d spare you a pitying look or two when Aubade was at her worst, but when you destroyed the phylacteries, you thought maybe he’d be the one to kill you when no one was looking. 

“Hi,” he says softly. “It’s Dalish now, isn’t it?” 

Better than ‘brat’ or ‘elf.’ You glare right back at him, hopefully much braver than you feel. 

“We both know you’re a clever little thing, pulling half the tricks you did. Not half as silent either,” he says with a bitter chuckle, leaning in as he speaks. You should be angry at this blatant attempt at intimidation but instead you shrink further and further against the wall.

“So I know you’ll understand what I’m telling you. When your teachers say you’re ready, you get to do a test called the Harrowing, okay? You pass, you’re a real mage of the Tower. You might even get to leave the tower again. But do you know what happens when your teachers think you’re going to fail?” 

You shake your head slowly, trying to process what he’s telling you. Was that another way out of the tower? Passing this Harrowing? 

“If your teachers don’t think you’re ready, you don’t get to take the test,” Stuttgart says. “Instead you become Tranquil. Do you know what that means?” 

You shake your head. 

“Those mages you see with the suns on their foreheads? They can no longer do magic. They’re cut off from the Fade forever. There’s no going back.” 

You stay quiet for a moment, digesting that information. You  _ have _ seen those mages, working in the store rooms, making food deliveries, restocking the libraries. You’ve never talked to them and they’ve never talked to you. All of them… were cut off from the Beyond? Forever? ...Like you thought you already were?

You raise your wrist and point at your cuffs. 

“Those come off,” Stuttgart says grimly. “The suns do not. Do you understand?” 

You hear your breath in your ears, and some ugly thing clawing up through the fear that looked an awful lot like hope. You’re almost afraid to seize it, on the chance it might be a lie, but no. You had nothing to lose but that scrawl of hope. 

Stuttgart had to have seen these cuffs used before. If those mages could use magic after… well maybe you could too. 

You nod. You could run with this. You don’t have anything to lose. If you’re not cut off forever, if you can just stop using blood magic when the cuffs come off, then you could still make a run for it. You could go home and never think about this again. 

“Good,” the enchanter says with a nod. “I hope to see you doing better in my class.” 

The two adults stand, but you have to take another moment to steady yourself to stand, holding onto the wall as support. As the enchanter walks back into the classroom, Stuttgart’s hand falls heavy on your shoulder. You freeze in place. 

“If I were you,” he murmurs. “I’d hurry up about doing better. The Tranquil don’t feel, you see. And it seems like you’d do a lot better with a little less of that.” 

A chill runs down your spine as Stuttgart takes his armored hand from your shoulder and puts it on your head. He ruffles your head as he chuckles, and steers you back into the classroom. 


End file.
